Hello my joys,
One of my readers asked recently, “Do you ever run out of ideas?” And I wanted to share with you where the seeds for a new idea in my Montana love story came from. I hope you enjoy this little insight into my writing process, writing inspiration, creative process, and family history.
I was reflecting on my grandfather, whose last name was Fairweather which means a happy bright person of good disposition, and he really was a great practical joker and a loving granddad. I used to affectionately nickname him The Goon and call Reg Goondad as he was so much of a prankster.
My grandfather, Reg, had a great, great sense of humour. Perhaps it was the Scottish in him. Some of my most favourite Scotsmen have very wild and rugged senses of humour. I’m thinking of people like Billy Connolly as I write.
Anyway, I have fond memories of my grandfather, Reg, and my grandmother Molly. I used to take the bus or the train to visit my grandparents with my older cousins during holidays—a five hour trip away. I wanted to incorporate some my happy memories in my love story, Love in Montana. I’ve named Jack’s grandfather Reg!
My Reg would love playing tricks and encouraging people not to take things so seriously. Like the time my grandmother entered a competition to bake a sponge. My grandfather got up in the night and put a layer of wire in the cake so that when the judges went to cut it to assess whether it was moist, the knife struck the metal—to their horror and my grandmother’s shame.
I’m not sure whether she laughed about that little trick at all.
I also remember my grandfather convincing me to feed rocks and stones bread and milk, telling me that they were living things… which in many cultures is a truth. Because I hung on to every word he said, I believed in what he called ‘holy rocks’. I might have been around eight or nine. My grandfather encouraged me to take these rocks, filled with holes, for walks through the rural town where they lived, like it was a dog.
He told me my rocks were magic and living things, and I believed him. And there I was, walking my rocks up and down the main street of this small country town. Probably everyone was laughing, but I don’t remember. I loved my rocks. I would tuck them into bed, read them stories, and kiss them to sleep. And in the morning, the food I would put out, the bread, water, and other treats, would be gone! So I was absolutely convinced it was true.
Later, it was my grandfather who taught me how to drive and how to ride a motorbike. He didn’t have much time for the notion that women couldn’t do things men could.
In my late 50s I learned more of his personal life. He grew up the son of a rich landowner. But his mother died when he was young. And when the young servant girl, Molly, came to do chores at the house and live in, Reg fell in love with her. And as their romance blossomed he demanded that she sit at the table with Reg and his father for meals—not in the servants’ quarters. And his father, my great-grandfather, who I never met, disinherited him when he married Molly. But marry Molly he did.
He encouraged her painting and creativity and used to make frames for her to display her paintings.
He was a very good wood worker and built his own house. And he grew his own vegetables. And I loved all that. I grow my vegetables now. And when I find the pure delight of an organic, non-sprayed cabbage, for example, as I did yesterday, it’s just the pure joy of remembering my grandfather.
A love of gardening was something he passed down to his daughter, my mother, Joy, and to me. Not to any other members of my family that I am aware of.
I remember my grandfather making me an easel. And I still have many of the things that he made. A huge chest that used to go at the foot of the bed. And I still have a jewellery box he made me. And I remember wanting to be a woodworker and a furniture maker like he was. I studied furniture design when I was completing a two-year course in interior design. I loved it and I still have a special piece I made which sits inside the entrance to our home.
But I developed an allergy toward dust.
And then there was that failed engagement! I didn’t finish my course. I went back to work.
But now, as I’m a year away from 60, I’m back into my creativity, back into my joy. And I wanted to honour my grandfather in my story, Love in Montana.
I’ve drafted a scene where everyone thinks they’re playing a trick on Reg But they’re not, as you will read. The trick is on them. Because Reg knows exactly what they’re up to. And he’s going to milk it for all he can get. If you sign up for my newsletter you’ll be the first to know when the story is released. Sign up here:
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I hope you enjoy this little preview into Love in Montana and a few musings about the people in my life who inspire me and insight into my writing process. I always like to put historical events into my stories. Things that have actually happened. Whether in my family, or people I know, or society. At the moment, we need more joy. We need to stop taking ourselves so seriously. We need more love and and playfulness.
That is, for me, my passion and purpose instilled in me from my family.
📚 **About the book**:
Lizzie, a former lawyer with a tarnished reputation, is looking for a fresh start away from the courtroom. Jack, a hardened rancher with a tragic past, has buried his emotions deep within. When circumstances force them into a fake engagement, the lines between pretense and reality begin to blur. Can Lizzie and Jack find a way to trust each other, or will their secrets and lies tear them apart?
📖 **Perfect for fans of:**
– Small-town romance
– Fake engagement and second chance tropes
– Redemption and heartwarming stories set in the countryside
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Watch the trailer now for a sneak peek into a love story that will capture your heart.
A few of the things I have that my grandfather Reg made me:
